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About Wollongong

I’m picturin’ it – me, drivin’ round, lookin’ for some action. Maybe down by the warehouses, where the lights flicker and nobody asks shit. Dr. Evil vibes – pinky up, “One million dollars.” – like I’m buyin’ the whole damn block. But real talk, it ain’t that fancy. Prolly just some chick named Tammy, smokin’ a cig, leanin’ on a streetlight. “What’s your story, hon?” I’d ask, all smooth, but inside I’m like, “This is nuts, what am I doin’?”

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Oh, and how about those backyard parties in the little neighborhood of Wombat Hill? They're wild, noisy, and beautifully so. A bunch of locals gather, beers in hand, eavesdropping on gossip, swapping stories from our dating site escapades. Insane, right? Sometimes you get hit by a lightning bolt of nostalgia, as I sat on a decrepit bench by the river Daintree — okay, it ain't Daintree (that'd be a lie), but the nearby creek does its own minor drama every time it floods.

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